April 25, 2013

Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.

~Carl Sandburg

The
rain had come down in torrents, drumming loudly against the windows
and roof. She had lain awake for hours in the middle of the night,
watching for the dazzling bolts of lightening and anticipating the
subsequent bangs of thunder. She thought back to her childhood, when
someone, maybe her mother, had told her that if she counted the
seconds between the flash and the boom she count the miles to where
the lightening had touched down. She was not sure now, hiding under
the mess of blankets on her bed, that there was more than half a
second between the two.

The
next morning she pulled rain boots on over her pajamas and went
outside with her son to wait for the school bus. More alert than she,
he noticed the worms right away. They were all over the driveway,
dozens of them, stranded on the paver stones. Although the lawn was
still soaked, the driveway was drying quickly, and the worms were
going to die. We have to save them!, her son insisted.

They
each picked up twigs that had come down from the trees the night
before, and slowly began lifting up the worms and flinging them back
into the grass. They wished each one well before launching them back
to safety: Go home! Back you go! Find the mud! Sometimes her son used
his fingers when he couldn't get the worm to stay on the twig, and
she imagined that he was giving them little finger hugs before
sending them sailing through the air, the only flight they'd ever
experience.

They
had saved each and every one just before the school bus rolled up in
front of their house. They hugged and kissed, and she went back
inside smiling at her son's compassion for the helpless creatures,
the lowest of the low. Still tired from her sleepless night, she
walked slowly up the stairs and crawled back into her bed, her own
safe place.

April 02, 2013

"Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts."

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Arizona landscape stretches out thousands of feet below me, brown and green, with its rolling hills, peaked mountains, and dry river beds. The plane banks slightly to my side, offering me a wider view, and I drink it up, thirsty, like the thousands of saguaro below me. I am almost home.

Once off the plane I savor the southwest-ness of the airport. The gift shops are overflowing with silver and turquoise jewelry, mini-barrel cacti with fuchsia paper flowers glued to their tops, and mexican jumping beans. Sombreros are stacked high next to baskets of maracas and shelves of U of A shot glasses. The sculptures and paintings lining the hallway to baggage claim celebrate sunsets, rodeos, and cowboys. I love all of it. If I don't get a tamale soon, I may explode.

Outside we wait for my younger brother to pick us up, surrounded by our luggage and an aura of travel fatigue. It is late, the sun is down, and the bats are dipping and twirling under the street lights. The Catalinas rise on the north side of town, enormous, like black sentinels against a velvet sky. When David pulls up to the curb we pile into his big, white Toyota Pathfinder and start the usual family banter about the kids, the weather, and our plans.

The next few days fly by, a rush of shared meals and clicking cameras. My family travels like a caravan, in two or three cars, criss-crossing town for hikes, museums, grocery stores, ice cream, and meals. We inch through parking lots looking for those highly sought after spots in the shade of a rare tree. Every time we park I put the giant windshield visor up in a feeble attempt to keep the interior of the car from reaching hellacious temperatures. It's only March, so we are still somewhat safe from the thermal assault that is Tucson at its worse.

One night we all drive to El Molinito, which is conveniently situated in a strip mall between a mortgage company and a Baskin-Robbins. The restaurant has bad murals of Aztecs and parrots painted on the walls, and a dark, patterned carpet in desperate need of cleaning. Eleven of us situate ourselves around tables that have been hastily pushed together to accommodate us, and the kids settle in with their paper placemats, crayons, and 24 oz. styrofoam cups of Sprite and lemonade.

When the waitress puts my plate down I take a picture of my dinner with my iPhone The refried beans are running into the rice, which is covered with shredded lettuce and cheddar cheese. Resting against the bed of rice is a crispy, ground beef taco, orange with grease. Wedged next to the taco is a slightly congealed cheese enchilada, and next to that is a beef tamale wrapped ceremoniously in corn husks. The tamale has a green olive in it, which makes it authentic in my book. It is all incredibly delicious and I wash it down with a cold Pacifico and lime. I look forward to this dinner for 51 weeks each and every year.

At night I lie in bed with the window open and the blinds up so I can see the stars and hear the crickets, or sometimes, coyotes and javelina. The coyotes howl and scream, and the pigs snort, root, and trample, and both are somewhat terrifying. They remind you that the places humans have carved out as their own are only temporary, and must be constantly guarded and maintained, or nature will take them back. Those primitive things that are closer to the earth are the ones that truly own it. The scorpions in the bathroom tell me this.

The lights of the city shine below the foothill that I'm nestled in. In the morning I wake to the sounds of quail and morning dove, and the smell of mesquite and desert life. If I am lucky I will smell rain at some point, too, although this is rare. When it does rain, it smells like months of tangy dryness being beat from the land, like dust from a blanket.

19 years after leaving the desert, I miss it terribly. When I first left my home it was in a frenzy, and with a sense of urgency. My life was waiting for me somewhere else, and I did not look back. I've built that life over the years, accumulating a husband, two children, a car and a house. It seems a bit surreal that I did those things in the Midwest, so far from my roots. Can you be double-planted? Now, when I go back, I find myself completely enamored with this place I so badly wanted to escape.

The harshness of the desert makes me wonder how growing up here might mold a person. What does it mean to grow up surrounded by barbed plants, poisonous bugs, and deadly heat? What were those early settlers thinking when they stopped their covered wagons, looked at the parched, spiny terrain, and staked their claim? Does a swimming pool count as a survival tool?

People in the Midwest always ask me, “Why would you leave Arizona for these winters?” and I always say, “I couldn't take the heat anymore. The climate there is just as extreme as the climate here.”

“Oh, but it's a dry heat!” they exclaim, as if I may not have realized this. “Yes, and so is the inside of your oven, but you wouldn't want to live there,” I retort.

Now, almost 20 winters later, my memories of those summers have faded, much like my memories of childbirth, appendicitis, and orthodontia. Chances are a few weeks of 110 degree temperatures would leave me withered and weeping in a corner of my bathtub, begging for mercy and dreaming of a blizzard. Chances are I'd get tired of burning my hands on the steering wheel, and wearing a bra ever damp with sweat, and the incessant pounding of the sun. I would miss walking barefoot and hearing the gentle sweep of the waves on the shore of Lake Michigan.

So for now I'll stay where I am and savor the one week a year I get to spend with my family in the desert, cradled by mountains and covered in stars.

March 20, 2013

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

~Ernest Hemingway

Every few months I get a catalog in the mail from our local high school's extension program. They offer hundreds of classes on everything from yoga to finance. Three years ago I signed up for my first French class, and this past summer I signed up for Italian. I've enjoyed these classes immensely, despite my continued inability to speak a word of French (parlo Italiano abbastanza bene).

This session I decided to take a writing class. I've been considering this for a long time, but kept putting it off out of what is probably a raging case of fear of failure. What if I suck? What if everyone else is publishing a novel? Will I be able to eek out something longer than a Facebook update? I also held myself back because I lacked a goal. What was I going to write? My thought process went something like this: Once I start writing I will feel pressure to write something brilliant, and since it's nearly impossible to get something published, I won't even start. My focus was on the end result, instead of the process.

Eventually I sent in a check.

The class is called "Just Write: A Workshop," and that's pretty much what it's all about. Get a piece of paper and a writing utensil, turn off the inner voice that says, "I don't know what to say/I can't/I suck," and write something. Don't edit, don't ponder, just write. Our teacher has given us a long list of prompts to work with if we need a kickstart.

It rained

He needed a cigarette

The room went dark

In the kitchen

How ridiculous

When I was fifteen

Each week the teacher gives us a handout on the "lesson," which is really more like a topic to think about in regard to writing: appositions and lists, inspiration and learning styles, similes and metaphors, time and memory, concise writing. She includes quotes, examples, and writing exercises.

We write in class, and then read aloud what we've written. We also read what we've written in our writing journals during the week, and twice a term we work on and read a longer piece, something we've edited and worked on more than our standard journaling. There is no test, no final piece, no end goal. We just write for the sake of writing, which is a suprisingly novel idea to me. No goal, just a process.

In addition to the writing there is a sense of community, which is a benefit to the class that I hadn't anticipated. There are ten of us, all women. Only two of us are new to the class; most of the other women have been taking the same class together for years. That could have been intimidating, but everyone has been welcoming and encouraging.

After six weeks of class I have not written as often as I would like, but I have gained a bit of confidence and enthusiasm for the process of writing. Most of what I've churned out are small snapshots of my life, past or present. They may lend themselves well to this oft-neglected blog, so I will work on sharing some of them here.

July 24, 2012

My eight-year-old son finished his first year of Boy Scouts this June. He's adorable in his little Tiger Scout outfit with the orange scarf, badges, beads, and pins. He took great pride in his pinewood derby car, his rocket, and his den's soap box derby car. He attended meetings, learned oaths, and pledged that he will do his best; I'm pretty sure he enjoyed it all.

He's leaving the BSA, though, on his own accord, because of the BSA's discriminatory stance on homosexuals. If you've been under a rock for the past few weeks (no judgements here, I am frequently under rocks when it comes to big news stories) you may have missed it, but the BSA announced last week that after a confidential two-year review, the Boy Scouts of America has reaffirmed its policy of excluding gays.

I wonder if a more realistic argument for keeping kids in the BSA is that parents don't want to deal with explaining why they should no longer participate, that they've already made the investment of time and money, and that the discriminatory policy doesn't really affect their daily scouting lives.

I've tried to see this from a “change from within” perspective, and I've taken into consideration the assumption, based on my experience, that our local pack is tolerant and inclusive. All things considered, however, I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer send money to, participate in, or ask my child to respect an organization that excludes anyone based on religious belief or sexual orientation. My reasons are as follows:

I would never, ever, patronize an establishment that had a “No Gays” sign on the door.

I would never knowingly donate money or purchase products from such an organization or business. Goodbye, Boy Scout popcorn!

I find the BSA to be at hypocritical odds with the Christian faith they purport to adhere to. I was under the assumption that Christians follow the teachings of Jesus Christ, and that he taught acceptance, love, and inclusion. In a day of “WWJD” t-shirts, I'm pretty sure that Jesus Christ would not support the BSA right now.

The hypocrisy isn't limited to a conflict with Christian belief. Bob Mazzuca and Wayne Perry, chief scout executive and national president of the Boy Scouts of America, wrote an opinion piece in the July 17, 2012 edition of the New York Times. In part, they wrote, "And we teach our members to treat those with different opinions with courtesy and respect at all times and to adamantly oppose the mistreatment of others based on any perceived difference." How can they adamantly oppose the mistreatment of others based on perceived differences if they are mistreating those with perceived differences in their organization?

Despite the buzz that this issue has created among me and my grown-up friends, I suspect that few people are discussing this with their kids. I'm sure we all have our reasons, but to be truthful, it was probably only cowardice that kept me from discussing this with my son. It's one thing for me to decide that we're done with the Scouts, but it seemed wrong to not ask my son for his opionion. When I did sit down and talk to my son about this issue, openly and honestly, I was rewarded with an open, honest response.

I explained that the BSA does not allow some people to participate in their organization based on the way they were born. I compared it to disallowing people based on the color of their eyes, or their skin. We discussed what it means to be gay, and my son took this in in the spirit in which I presented it: that it's natural. At the end of our conversation I asked him to take some time to think about whether or not he would like to stay in BSA. He said he didn't need to; he thinks that the policy is “cruel,” that he has “plenty of other fun things to do,” and doesn't want to be in Scouts anymore if they aren't allowing everyone to join.

December 14, 2011

"The difference between perseverance and obstinacy is that one often comes from a strong will, and the other from a strong won't."

~ Henry Ward Beecher

I think it can be hard, as parents, to stow away our baggage and trust that our kids might experience life's ups and downs differently than we did. Social dynamics can be a sticky mess for our little people, and a lot of what my kids experience at school throws me right back to the 1st grade. There I am with my shag haircut, apron dress, and unibrow.

This was the conversation between me and my two sons in the car yesterday.

D = 7-years-old; A = 9-years-old.

D: Sometimes Cooper is really mean on the bus. He took Scott's hat and made him cry and I had to tell the busdriver. Today he leaned over my seat and told me that I'm not allowed to have any clubs, and that he was coming to my house to babysit tonight.

Me: Honey, there is no way that I would let a fourth grader babysit you. He's not babysitting. And it doesn't matter if he tells you that you can't have clubs. He has no... jurisdiction over you. No control. It would be like telling you that you're not allowed to eat dinner.

D: But he told me I can't have any clubs!

Me: Do you know what you should do?

D: What?

A: Punch him in the nose!

Me: Do not punch him. Ignore him.

D, incredulous: I mean, doesn't he know that I'm the Head Boss of the Godzilla Club?

A: You have a Godzilla Club?

D: Yup.

A: Who's in it?

D: No one. I haven't asked anyone yet. But I will. I'll sign them up at school and we'll have meetings in my bedroom at home.

Me: I was talking to your teacher today, and she said you have another club, something about ice crystals?

D: Yeah, the Ice Crystal Digger Club. I'm the Head Boss. We dig for ice crystals.

A: Is anyone in that one?

D: Yeah, a lot of kids. Except they all left my club today to go be in the Chicken Club, where all you do is bang on sticks.

Me: What? They left? What's a Chicken Club?

D: I don't know, it's stupid, you just pretend sticks are chickens.

Me: Why did they all leave the club?

D: I don't know! They just all left!

Me, feeling sad: Does it make you really... sad that everyone left your club?

D: No. It makes me furrous.

Me: Furious?

D: Yeah.

Me: Do you you want to join the Chicken Club?

D: I would never join that club! NEV-AH!

A: You don't know, it might be fun.

D: NEV-AH!

My seven-year-old stands resilent against the mass exodus of his club. I'm pretty sure I'd be scheduled to see the school social worker by now. He's proud to be the Head Boss of not one, but two clubs*, and it doesn't seem to bother him that no one else is in the clubs. Is this confidence, stubborness, or some combination of the two?

The fine line, of course, is teaching him some flexibility so that he might eventually wander over to the Chicken Club and enjoy himself, or ask his friends why they left the Ice Crystal Diggers Club in the first place. I have a feeling he's not the easiest 1st grader to work for.

I'm just going to have to pack up my own 1st grade baggage and keep it well out of the way of the Head Boss. He'll navigate his own way, I have no doubt, through the inevitable conflicts between ice crystals and chickens.

*actually, he has a Fake Mustache Club, too, which I had forgotten about until he reminded me.

December 10, 2011

"Art should astonish, transmute, transfix. One must work at the tissue between truth and paranoia."

~ Brett Whitely

Today I went to see this Ansel Adams exhibit. I saw 70, original, signed pieces and I came away feeling that I should never, ever, pick up my camera again, for fear of further bastardizing the brilliance of the art form that this man just about perfected.

Recently this photograph, Rhine II, sold for 4.3 million dollars. It's by Andreas Gursky.

Really? I've read arguments justifying the $4.3 million, and I've read the confusion. Personally, I don't get it. It may be technically outstanding in terms of digital editing; it may be vibrant and large scale; it may challenge what some see as the place of photography in the art world. But...

It illicits nothing in me.

So, back to Ansel Adams. You want to talk about technical masterpieces? Have you taken a look at Tetons and Snake River lately?

I stood in front of this original, signed print this morning, and it brought tears to my eyes. The details, the tones, the composition, the printing... it all comes together as a masterpiece that illicits an emotional reaction. Don't even get me started on Moonrise, Hernandes, New Mexico.

I understand that a lot of people are sort of tired of Ansel Adams. He's overexposed, if you'll pardon the pun. Most people probably associate his work with wall calendars and postcards. But that doesn't change the brilliance of his work.

Perhaps I need to go stand in front of the Gursky to see if being in front of it stirs my soul even just a little bit. It's not that I don't like his work. I like his work quite well. I like this one, Beach, in particular.

Shanghai, too.

I like them a lot more than Rhine II. But I don't like them $4.3 million's worth. If I had $4.3 million - hell, if I had $4,300, to spend on art work, I would scour the art world for something that spoke to me, something that I could stare at and reflect upon for the rest of my life. That's what I'd like to ask the buyer of Rhine II. I'd like to ask that person what Rhine II says to them.

Duchamp said that anything an artist produces is art. That's a pretty broad definition, and maybe that's how Piero Manzoni got away with packing his own excrement in a can and selling it as "art."

I don't believe that a definition of art is relevant unless it resonates with the individual looking at the art. If the piece does't speak to me, it's not my art. It might be "art" - it might be someone else's art, but it isn't my art.

December 09, 2011

"Christmas is the gentlest, loveliest festival of the revolving year - and yet, for all that, when it speaks, its voice has strong authority."

~ W.J. Cameron

The boys and I got all the Christmas decorations out tonight. I sort of had to, because my next door neighbor, whom I love, is Jewish, and she has a tree up, and outdoor lights, and I was feeling a little bit left out.

My husband jokes that she's double-dipping, but we both say more power to her.

Some may see it as another example of the de-Christ-ing of Christmas, but I think it's great that so many non-Christians celebrate on December 25th. When I was a child I joyously celebrated Jesus' birthday, and was thrilled that for some reason, I was the one getting all the presents. As I grew older my belief system changed, and now I see Christmas as a day to celebrate family, tiny white lights, friends near and far, a food-laden table, and the silent arrival of a snow-covered winter.

Why be upset that non-Christians celebrate this day? They, too, can bring tidings of joy. Think of it as a continuum. On the left side you have the Grinch. On the right side you have little Cindy Lou Who. Throughout the year all the people on this continuum are going about their daily business in their own flawed, human way. Then on one day, they all shift - maybe a little, maybe a lot, toward the right. They shift toward a generous spirit, the close bond of family, love and cheer. They donate coats, food, and toys; they write cards and letters to people they haven't seen in years; they think about what someone else might like. They give. Who wouldn't welcome that as an acceptable meaning of Christmas?

If you really, really want Christmas to be about the birth of Jesus, you'd need to change a lot of things about December 25th. First, you'd need to change it to sometime in September, when most biblical historians believe Jesus was really born (shephards don't shephard in December). Second, you'd need to turn the gift-giving around and give only to the poor and to those living in homeless shelters (today's manger). Third, you'd probably need to remove Santa from the scene. He was not one of the three wise men and he has nothing to do with Jesus. Your kids are going to be pissed, but there you have it. No reindeer, either. Same for the tree. No tree for Jesus. And for Pete's sake, let's get rid of that creepy elf.

I don't see a lot of people celebrating Jesus' birth that way, though. I see them in the toy aisles at Target, buying Fraser Pines for the living room, and sending their kids' letters to Santa. They're angry that we've taken the Christ out of Christmas, without giving much thought to how much non-Christ stuff they themselves are cramming into Christmas.

Christmas has become bigger than a birthday. It started out as a Roman pagan holiday to celebrate Saturnalia, and then was co-opted by Christians to more easily convert the masses. It has evolved and changed over the years, but at its heart it is the same: it is about welcoming family, expressing love through the exchange of gifts, helping those less fortunate, and sharing a meal together. Sure, the kids are shooting themselves with BB guns and your cousin Kevin just knocked down the 14-foot Christmas tree, but there is nothing, nothing at all, like the anticipation and magic leading up to Christmas. Everyone deserves to feel and take part in that if they so choose. The birthday boy would want it that way.

December 06, 2011

Yesterday I got an email from a friend, who got it from her friend, who got it from her friend. It was written to Abercrombie & Fitch by a woman in my community and school district, and signed with her name, address, phone number and email address so that A&F can easily respond to her. I'm reprinting the letter without her contact information, and I encourage you to seriously consider her message.

"To Whom It May Concern:

The story starts off great. It was a lazy Saturday afternoon with my 12 year old daughter for a trip to Northbrook Court. I relished the one on one time with her, to experience her world, and to chit chat about her latest likes and dislikes. While she has been an avid fan of Abercrombie, your store for a ‘younger audience’, I have always detested it. The heavy perfume, incessant loud music, dark lighting and of course, photos on walls that always toe of line of inappropriate for their blatant sexuality. However, I tolerated it and even spent our fair share of hard earned money so my daughter could have an overpriced, undersized pair of Abercrombie jeans, t-shirt or denim shorts. Never again.

This trip to the mall, my daughter wanted to shop at Abercrombie & Fitch (A&F). Upon walking in the store, I was struck by the shocking pornographic images (attached). I immediately went to one of the sales associates who, when I inquired why we needed to be exposed to pornography, replied sheepishly “I know, we get a lot of complaints.” I then addressed it with the store manager and, he too, nodded in agreement but did try to share what I’m sure is your “company line”. This store is for “our more adult clientele”, he stated. Adult? Did he really just say that? Are you referring to this shirt that fits my 12 year old daughter as adult I asked? Further, I recalled to him, we had just been in and out of several other stores that cater to the tween/teen audience and not a single other store display such graphic images. Have you been in Forever XXI? No images there. In fact, Abercrombie and A&F take the prize. They alone stand out as displaying such sexualized images.

The attached image is truly most offensive. What does it teach our daughters? Your body is all that matters. Don’t expect any eye contact during intimate acts. How about lessons for our sons? Be in control. Don’t show your vulnerability.

Until I see evidence of A&F removing these images from your stores, we will not be shopping there and I will do my best to discourage my vast circle of friends and family to do the same. Negative word of mouth and perceptions of parents who make many of the purchasing decisions will not be good for your bottom line.

I look forward to your response. Sincerely,Julie K."

Here's the image that Julie is talking about.

Abercrombie & Fitch won't be surprised by Julie's letter. They've been getting lots and lots of press for their advertising tactics. Google "Abercrombie & Fitch advertising" and you'll see what I mean.

2003: "Clothing retailer Abercrombie & Fitch has stopped selling its sexually explicit Christmas catalog, saying its stores need the shelf space for its new women's fragrance line, A&FNOW. The company said it wasn't responding to pressure from any group." (full article here)

2008: "Police, saying they were responding to citizen complaints, carted away two large promotional photographs from the Abercrombie & Fitch store in Lynnhaven Mall on Saturday and cited the manager on obscenity charges." (full article here)

Abercrombie & Fitch has also been criticized for marketing push-up bikini tops to 7-year-olds, and for sexist messages on T-shirts, such as: "It's All Relative in West Virginia," "Who needs brains when you have these?" "Available for parties," and "I had a nightmare I was a brunette."

Oh, and they've been sued for racial discrimination, too.

Regarding the soft-porn advertising, some will undoubtedly say that kids are exposed to images like this all the time - on TV, at movies, at the mall (hello, Victoria Secret!) and on billboards. This is real life, right? Get over it! Well, no. Victoria's Secret sells bras, so it makes sense that their ads show women wearing... bras. Are they oversexualized, airbrushed, Photoshopped misrepresentations of reality? Yes. But at least they feature the product being sold.

If you looked at the above Abercrombie & Fitch ad without knowing what it was for, you might think they were selling sex toys, Playboy magazine, or a strip club. You might not realize that they're selling t-shirts and shorts to the tween-through-college set. Sex sells. Abercrombie is making tons and tons and tons of money: sales for the 3rd quarter of 2011 increased 21% to $1.076 billion; U.S. sales were up 14%; international sales were up 56%.

December 05, 2011

"When other little girls wanted to be ballet dancers I kind of wanted to be a vampire."

~ Angelina Jolie

In the first 19 weeks of my first pregnancy, I was absolutely convinced I was having a girl. This was based on nothing. I didn't hold a ring on a hair above my belly, or look at Chinese calendars, or do anything with Drano. The reason I was convinced that I was having a girl was that I had to have a girl. It was mandatory. I looked back on my own life as a very insecure, conflicted, anxious girl, and at the path I had taken to become a confident, happy, independent woman, and I knew that the best thing I could do with those experiences was to pass the Cliff Notes on to my own girl.

Then in week 20 I found out I was having a boy. What the hell was I going to do with all that girl-growing-into-a-strong-woman knowledge? It took a few days, but when the answer came, it was crystal clear: I had an obligation to pass all of my hear-me-roar information on to my boy. Perhaps it was just as important to pass it on to a boy as a girl, because boys are so intertwined in all the reasons that girls in our society are perceived the way they are, and why they perceive themselves the way they do.

So, here we are, nine+ years later, and I have two boys. And yesterday, my nine-year-old boy, a voracious reader, said to me, completely out of the blue, "How come in all the books I read the girls are always worried, and the boys are always adventurous?" and I was reminded of my obligation.

In all fairness, he asked me why books portray things this way - he didn't do or say something that indicates that this is how he views the world. But still, it gave me pause. So I've decided to stack the decks a little bit, and I've asked my friends (and the internet) to suggest books that portray girls in an independent, strong, positive way. This is the list that I've come up with so far. If you leave your suggestions here, I'll edit them into the list.

Airborn by Kenneth Oppel (grades 6 and up)

Alanna (The Song of the Lionness series) by Tamora Pierce (grades 5 and up)

Anne of Green Gables (series) by L.M. Montgomery (grades 4 and up)

Brave Irene by William Steig (grades 1-4)

Breadcrumbs by Anne Ursu (grades 3 and up)

Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson (grades 4 and up)

The City of Ember (Books of Ember series) by Jeanne DuPrau (grades 3 and up)

December 02, 2011

I love that we've all embraced that it's the thought that counts, and that it's better to give than to receive. I think, though, we're only part way to finishing that thought.

What are we giving? More stuff, right? We're giving toys, clothes, books, gadgets, technology, and all manner of paraphernalia. In our eagerness to make other people happy with all our giving-ness, we're still making it all about the stuff.

This season's top sellers for adults are TVs and computer tablets, according to the Associated Press. For kids, the National Retail Federation says that barbies, video games, and iPods are hot-ticket items. China must be so very happy with us.

Who are we giving to? Family, friends, maybe some co-workers, maybe some of our kids' teachers? That's great, that's important, but that keeps our circle of giving pretty small, doesn't it? What are we giving to that stranger in the check-out line in front of us, or to woman struggling with her weepy toddler at the library, or that guy driving next to us on the highway?

Can we extend giving to them?

I'm not talking about buying the clerk at 7-11 at TV. I'm not talking about spending more, or taking more precious time out of our busy schedules, or exerting much energy at all. But we can give of more ourselves, through generosity of spirit and attitude. We can do little things that send the message that it's just not about us and ours - it's about all of us.

I'm not even talking about Random Acts of Kindness - although I'm all for those, too. I'm talking about Kindness, period.

Let that other car in front of you on the highway - you are not Mario Andretti

Let the person with three items go ahead of your loaded cart at the grocery store

Smile at the people you pass on the street

Look people in the eye

Thank people for anything you can thank them for

Hold open a door

Give compliments

Ask if you can help

Forgive someone

Forgive yourself

Shovel the neighbors sidewalk

Hell, shovel your own sidewalk - the mail-person will appreciate it

Don't flip off the person who is inevitably going to cut you off on the highway

Don't ride their bumper, either. Let them go.

Write a thank you note

Find someone with absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever and compliment their outfit

Read your kids an extra book at bedtime

Leave a good tip

Give your seat to someone who looks like they need it

Don't gossip

Take the time to let little kids pet your dog (insert disclaimer about nice dogs here)

Put your phone away during meals

Call your mom (my own mom is rolling her eyes right now, because I don't call her nearly enough)

Make extra Christmas cookies and drop them off at the teacher's lounge

Get there on time

Stop for pedestrians

Give the janitor a Christmas/Holiday gift

Say "bless you" and offer a tissue

Don't pretend you don't see that person looking for a seat on the train or bus - move your stuff

Say "hello" and "goodbye"

Think about the Golden Rule

I'm sure there's a lot more we can add to the list. Feel free to drop off suggestions in the comments. And go ahead and buy that stuff - it's one of the few times that we can indulge each other's more materialistic wishes, and it's fun. But in the process of obtaining that stuff, let's all try to be nice.